Square Roots
by MissTempleton
Summary: How can Jack and Phryne possibly hope to solve a mystery when no-one will say a word?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

The martini jug was a thing of beauty. Gently frosted with condensation … coloured by the slices of lime … and … just … out of … reach.

Studiously ignoring the rest of the occupants of the room, Elizabeth Jane Robinson edged along the cocktail table, rose to her toes and reached a questing hand towards the treasure that shone before her.

She was then summarily snatched up; when she saw who was responsible, she gurgled with laughter.

Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson grinned back at her, and slung her to his hip, picking up a glass from Mr Butler's tray in his other hand and joining the group in the bay window of the parlour at 221B The Esplanade.

He may have recognised that in doing so, he transformed himself from Awkward Policeman to Adorable Father in the eyes of the women gathered around Mrs Robinson – but probably not. One of Jack's especial charms, thought Phryne, was his complete inability to trade on his looks – and if anyone had suggested to him that the ease with which he adopted his persona of father to what was unquestionably the most beautiful baby girl in the State of Victoria, probably the whole of Australia and quite possibly the entire Southern Hemisphere was knee-weakeningly attractive to the Weaker Sex, he would just look a bit confused and try to put the child down.

Which would end, quite correctly, in tears.

So, she didn't say a word, but her eyes warmed with laughter as the ladies of the Indigent Womens' Support Committee, young and old, turned like sunflowers to the vision of parental perfection before them.

He did his level best, but no-one was going to deny the relief with which they both collapsed on the sofa an hour later as Mr Butler closed the door behind the final stragglers and Elizabeth's nanny took her away for her tea.

"Sorry, Jack."

"I thought you said it was a lunch?"

"It was. But then someone made a joke about a Dirty Martini."

"The Indigent Women Committee makes jokes?"

She raised an eyebrow. "We make many jokes, Jack. It's a good way to get around the rather horrible situations we're faced with."

He was silenced. He well knew that what had started out as the occasional basket of dry goods for women in straitened circumstances had morphed, via temporary accommodation for homeless women, into a safe house for battered wives.

"You were home early?" she commented into the pause.

He shifted gear. "Yes. The Chief hauled me over to Russell Street for a chat, and by the time we were finished, it didn't seem worth going back to City South."

She was all ears. "A Chat? Jack, Bill Cooper doesn't Chat."

He slid a sideways glance at her, and rose to his feet to top up both their glasses from the last of the martini jug. She was, as so often, unarguably right.

He took his seat again, and rubbed a thoughtful thumb across her knuckles.

"No. No, he doesn't. And I'm still not entirely sure what it was about."

Miss Fisher was, of course, eager to know more; but the Inspector was, for once, a bit lost for words.

"He wanted me to join him for dinner at the Melbourne Club. I had to give my apologies because I knew you had the Indigent Women coming round, but instead of taking offence, he said he didn't mind a bit."

"Odd," she said pensively. He gave her a half smile.

"Yes, odd. I'm glad you thought so too – that was my instinct."

"He must want something," she pronounced decisively.

"Yes, but what? What on earth could I possibly have that the Chief Commissioner of Police could want?"

Right on cue, the telephone rang. Phryne grimaced. "If he's ringing to ask for the Hispano, the answer's no, and I don't care if you end up on traffic duty. Sorry, Jack."

He grinned. "As long as you don't flatten me outside Flinders Street, Miss Fisher." Then looked round as Mr Butler opened the door with a grave expression.

"I'm sorry, sir – that was City South. You're needed at a crime scene. Constable Collins has said he will send a car."

Jack groaned. Phryne, however, perked up. "Mr B, do you think you could turn the roast into sandwiches for us to take with us?"

 _Us?_ Jack gave her A Look.

"Jack, you're having dinner with me. That's what married couples do – they keep commitments. Ours might just be an unorthodox dinner in the back seat of a police car. Forgive me if I dispense with the need for the candelabra, but I believe your police motors can be regrettably flammable."

"You're forgiven, Miss Fisher. If you could possibly avoid giving the impression when we reach the crime scene that you're an official member of the police force, that would be marvellous."

"As long as you don't cuff me in the back seat of your police car, Jack, you still won't get me into that uniform," she promised cheerfully.

He quirked an eyebrow.

She quirked one right back.

They both decided that they would take pity on their driver, and ate the sandwiches with every sign of decorum. Miss Fisher's suggestion that they could perhaps be spicier caused the Inspector to choke, but as they'd arrived in Armadale by that stage, he had to recover as quietly as possible.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"So, what have we got, Collins?" asked Jack, restored to the picture of professionalism and managing nobly to ignore his pulchritudinous self-appointed deputy.

The constable didn't have any problem at all adopting a sober face.

"Sir – Miss Fisher, I know you're experienced but there's a lady in the kitchen who's suffered an attack. I – I just wanted you to know. Be prepared. There's also a gunshot victim in the study."

Double-checking his officer, Jack realised that Collins' face was pale. All inclination to levity vanished, and with a glance to Phryne to ensure that she, too, had read the signals, he strode rapidly to the back of the house.

Even having been warned, he swallowed heavily at the sight that met him in the kitchen. The one thing which kept his heart whole was the fact that Dr McMillan was bending over her with a stethoscope.

"Mac?"

She didn't look round.

"I was here for the deceased, but this woman's still alive. What's more, there's a good chance she will be for some years if the ambulance gets here fast enough."

She glanced over her shoulder and didn't even meet their eyes.

"WHERE THE HELL IS THAT AMBULANCE?"

The distant pealing of bells provided an answer, and the doctor's shoulders dropped in relief.

She stood and faced the two sleuths.

"Janine Spencer. Wife of the deceased you'll find in the other room. She's suffered an extraordinary beating, I don't yet know what damage there is to her internal organs but I don't like the look of the bruising. Right now she's unconscious, which is a mercy because the pain she's facing will be immense and it means that no, Inspector, you can't ask her any questions."

Jack held up both hands.

"Mac, I don't think I even suggested trying."

The doctor looked at him angrily for a moment, then her anger faded as visibly as the strength in her legs; the kitchen wall was handily placed to prevent her falling.

"Sorry, Jack. I'm just having a little more difficulty than usual distinguishing friend and foe right now. You'll get a rational response tomorrow, not tonight. See you at the Women's Hospital. No need to come to the morgue, you'll have that report later this evening. Shooting at close range. He's through there." She gestured vaguely to the other side of the kitchen door and returned to her patient.

The ambulance team arrived, and she immediately switched back to professional mode, supervising the transport of her patient to a stretcher and thence to the ambulance. An antique parchment could not have received more kid-gloved tenderness than Mrs Spencer, and Phryne and Jack watched silently as the kitchen was carefully and efficiently vacated.

All that remained was a patch of blood on the tiles which had drained from the victim's mouth and nose. Phryne looked at it distastefully for a moment before concluding that her time could be better spent elsewhere. Jack lost the race to the kitchen door, but only by the narrowest of margins.

Collins was standing guard in the study – although when they entered, he appeared to be taking the air at the window.

"Collins?" Jack recalled his man to attention. The response was immediate, but the constable stayed where he was.

"Sorry, sir – the window was open, so I was trying to see whether it had been forced."

Miss Fisher immediately crossed the room to join him, carefully skirting the late Mr Spencer.

The Inspector chose to focus first on the deceased, albeit he'd rather not have done. The service revolver in the right hand; powder marks around the wound to the right temple; even the wrist watch on the left hand; all the immediate evidence suggested that Mr Spencer had allowed no-one but himself to make the decision as to when he'd depart this life. Admittedly, the watch glass hadn't conveniently smashed at the moment of death, but Jack still couldn't shake off the feeling of reliving an Agatha Christie.

Miss Fisher had also decided to make life more complicated.

"Odd that the window isn't latched," she remarked, pointing at the arm of the window latch which hung loose. It was a still day; had there been a breeze, the window would have swung back and forth; as it was, it simply provided a tacit question mark Jack could well have done without.

A thought occurred to him. "Collins, who reported the crime?"

Collins winced in anticipation. "The grocer's boy, sir. He was bringing the delivery, and walked in through the kitchen door – found Mrs Spencer and then ran straight to the telephone. It was only when I got here that we started searching the rest of the ground floor and found … this."

"Where's the boy?"

The natural answer would have been "in the kitchen" but in this case, there were few places less likely.

"There's a parlour overlooking the front drive, sir. Sergeant White's with him. I think he's trying to calm him down a bit."

"Has anyone looked around the rest of the house?"

"No, sir."

Jack tilted his head. "Off you go, then, Collins."

"Yes, sir."

Jack joined Phryne at the window; she was examining the fastening carefully. With an exclamation, she rummaged in her bag and found a pair of tweezers, which she then used to extract a fragment of cloth from the frame.

"Blue. Cotton," she remarked.

"Workmanlike" was his observation, as he proffered an evidence bag.

Turning her back on the window, she scanned the room, and approached the body gingerly. He propped a shoulder against the window and watched, quietly appreciating their capacity to work together; he would see what she saw and might spot what she missed, just by observing her process.

The revolver received close attention. Using her hatpin, she levered it up from its resting place on the blotter.

"Feels light. Maybe not fully loaded?"

Stepping forward, he took his handkerchief and, touching neither grip nor trigger, released the cylinder.

A lone, spent case was found. Their eyes met.

She drew breath to ask another question but was interrupted by the pounding of feet on the stairs. They both looked up as Collins burst through the door.

"Sir – Miss Fisher – the place has been ransacked. I'm pretty sure they've been robbed."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The downside of Mary Janes, thought Phryne frustratedly, was that they would not allow their wearer to take a flight of stairs two at a time. Quite how she'd managed to get this far through life without learning to wear ballet flats to a crime scene was a mystery in itself. On the other hand, the shoes in question were a thing of beauty, and she scampered as fast as she could, with due care and attention, after the two policemen.

What she saw when she reached the master bedroom made her catch her breath. The room had certainly received a great deal of attention and very little care. The mattress had been tipped off the bed, and the contents of every drawer in the room emptied onto the floor. A jewellery box on the dressing table was open and on its side – if it had ever possessed any contents, they would have been noted by their absence.

They all three picked their way around the room, carefully lifting and replacing items of debris, but the evidence was unremittingly brutal. If and when Mrs Spencer woke up, she was going to have more pain than the emotional and physical to contend with.

"Collins," said Jack finally. "I think we need the police photographer here; and when he's finished, bring the jewellery box back to the station. If the perpetrator was foolish enough to leave prints, that looks to be our best source."

The constable saluted and left the room.

"Miss Fisher, how do you feel about a little chat with a grocer's boy?"

"It's what I live for, Inspector."

They trooped back down the stairs and, by a process of elimination, found the parlour containing Sergeant White and his unwilling companion. Ernest wasn't actually being held by the scruff of the neck, but his feet were on the floor in a position perfectly designed to get him to the door as swiftly as possible as soon as he was allowed to stand. Part of the reason he wasn't being held by the scruff of the neck, thought Phryne, was that the sergeant would quite possibly catch something if he touched such a scrofulous surface, and decided then and there that if anyone offered her a cup of tea in this household, she would politely refuse, having seen the degree of hygiene employed in delivering the goods.

"En't done nothin'" was the tedious refrain that White had been enduring for most of their interview.

"On the contrary, Ernest, you did a great service to the police," said Phryne admiringly. "There aren't many people who would be able to keep their heads as you did. _Well done_!"

While it would be exaggerating to say that Ernest unbent, at least he shifted his front foot slightly away from the Racing Line.

"So, talk me through it," said Jack easily. "What time did you get here?"

"About four o'clock I reckon. Just the usual order. Knew it was the cook's day off, so I just marches in the kitchen door with my basket and – there was the missus." The boy shuddered. "She dead, you reckon?" he asked ghoulishly.

"Hopefully not," snapped Jack. "Did you see or hear anyone else?"

"Nah. Just got to the telephone and went to the front door to let the coppers in."

Jack sighed, and told the sergeant to let the boy go. An eye witness of a blue-shirted stranger loitering in the house or garden was too much to ask for, apparently.

"So, what do you think, Jack? Suicide?" asked Phryne.

"Looks like it. I wouldn't mind getting a better idea of the cause, though." He shoved his hands in his pockets and wandered over to look out of the window. "No note."

"There doesn't _have_ to be one," Phryne argued.

"No," he admitted, "there's no law about it – but how often have you seen a suicide where the victim doesn't tell the Cruel World why they're leaving?"

She conceded the point, and joined him to watch the coroner's team removing Mr Spencer from the premises. Leaving Sergeant White with the thankless task of waiting in to greet the police photographer and also the cook on her return from her day off, they returned to the car and were driven in pensive silence back to St Kilda.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Miss Fisher having made a very special effort, it wasn't even ten o'clock before she and the Inspector were enquiring for Dr McMillan the following morning. When they were shown to the private room, though, they were met with a very unusual sight; Mac was conferring with another doctor, in the Women's Hospital, and that doctor appeared to be A Man. What was more, the conversation appeared to be both serious and civil.

Catching sight of the two sleuths over her colleague's shoulder, Mac beckoned them in.

"The Honourable Phryne Fisher, Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, Dr Ross McCafferty." Mac performed the introductions as the inconvenient waste of time they appeared to her, and nods were hastily exchanged, before all attention turned to the occupant of the bed, who had been carefully placed in the recovery position – the reason why was soon made evident.

Mac kept her voice low, but this appeared only to be a measure to ensure they weren't overheard by others not present in that room.

"Mrs Spencer can't hear us; I've kept her on sedatives since I arrived at the crime scene yesterday evening. I wanted you here because I want you to see this."

Mac looked around at their faces and rested on Jack's.

"Inspector, you are seeing this because you must, for your investigation. Miss Fisher is female and Ross is a doctor. I will ask you, however, to bear in mind, that this is a patient, and a woman, and she is not currently conscious to give her consent to you seeing what I am about to show you."

She delicately peeled back the sheet, and lifted away the hospital gown slightly, so that the woman's back was revealed.

Phryne took a sharp breath, and Jack's face became as granite. Undeterred, the doctor described what they were seeing.

"Here are the marks from the attack she suffered yesterday evening. You will see that in several places they have cut into the skin, but not in all; I would say this was with a leather strap or belt, rather than a stick or a sword of some kind. Here, here and here you can also see bruising which is of different age. This is purple; this, almost yellowed."

She replaced the gown and the sheet with infinite gentleness that contrasted with the expression on her face.

"This woman has been beaten, not once, but repeatedly over a period of several days, even weeks. There are also broken ribs, suggesting that once she was on the floor, she was kicked in the torso. Also the face – her nose is broken."

"We are all now going to move to my office, where there is a bottle of Scotch and enough glasses for everyone that needs one."

She met no argument.

For a while, no-one spoke. Each sipped their drink, and stared into it, or out of the window, or at the wall.

Jack was the first to break the silence.

"I was surprised to see a male doctor here," he remarked to Dr McCafferty.

Said doctor shifted uncomfortably, and it was left to Mac to reply on his behalf.

"Ross was first on the scene for a woman in postpartum haemorrhage. By the time we'd brought her here and saved her, we'd forgotten that he wasn't supposed to be here."

He gave a wry smile. "I try to make myself useful when I have time to spare."

Phryne piped up. "It must be helpful in some ways. Politically, I mean." And, in response to an exasperated look from her friend, "Don't be an idiot, Mac. There's always politics."

Placing his empty glass on the desk, Jack attempted to resume progress in the investigation. "So, the repetition of the attacks on Mrs Spencer makes it less likely that an intruder assaulted her yesterday."

"My money's on the late Mr Spencer," remarked Phryne. "Which is a shame, because he's already dead."

"Thank you, Miss Fisher," said the Inspector as repressively as he could manage in response to a judgement he heartily agreed with. "I want to go back to the Spencer house and see if there's any sign of the instrument used."

"We're no closer to knowing why he was shot, though," she continued. "If he'd been beating her repeatedly it's a bit of a leap to think that he was suddenly overcome with remorse and decided to relieve her of his presence."

"The only lead we have at present is Mrs Spencer herself," said Jack, looking meaningfully at Mac. "Is there anything at all you can tell us?"

Unexpectedly, it wasn't Mac but Dr McCafferty who spoke up.

"It's not the first time she's been here."

Mac looked at him frowningly, but he met her gaze. "If it wasn't Spencer, the police need to know, Mac."

As she opened her mouth to reply, though, the office door opened and a nurse stuck her head in.

"Doctor, it's Mrs Spencer – she's coming round."

Mac gave Jack a warning look.

"Yes, Inspector, you may come along and attempt to ask her about the attack. No, Inspector, if she shows the slightest discomfort at your presence, you may not stay. You will in any case stop questioning her the instant I tell you to."

Jack nodded in agreement, and they filed back to Mrs Spencer's room.

She hadn't moved from the position on her side, but her eyes slitted open in their bruised and swollen state, as the group entered.

"Mrs Spencer," Mac said gently. "You remember me? Dr McMillan. You're in the Women's Hospital. You suffered an attack at your home yesterday, and I treated you and brought you here to recover."

The woman said nothing, but her eyes closed for a moment as if the effort of processing the information was more than her strength could stand.

When they opened again, it was to see Jack crouching in front of her to bring his face level with hers, his eyes gentle.

"Mrs Spencer, I'm Detective Inspector Robinson and I attended the scene of your attack. I'm afraid I have some bad news." Pause. Deep breath. "As well as finding you badly injured, we found your husband dead. He'd been shot."

He waited a few moments, and watched as she closed her eyes again.

"Mrs Spencer, I am sorry to have to ask, but we need to know whether you were aware of any enemies your husband might have had? The doctor has explained to me the amount of pain you are suffering and I assure you I would not be disturbing you at all, if there was any option."

Her eyes opened, and she stared at him for long minutes. Just as he was starting to wonder whether she had lost her reason, or her ability to speak, her mouth opened. He had to lean into catch the whispered words.

" _I – have – nothing – to – say_."

Jack stared into her eyes, and they were dull with pain, but there was also steely resolve. He caught Mac's forbidding eye, bit his lip and straightened. Muttering his thanks, he left the room with Phryne in tow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"So, where does that leave us?" Phryne slumped against the wall outside the hospital, where they had ground to a halt after leaving Mrs Spencer's room.

Jack's hands were deep in his pockets and his expression almost as gloomy if a little less sulky.

"Still looking for the identity of Mrs Spencer's attacker, the identity of the burglar and either the motive for Spencer to shoot himself or the identity and motive for someone else to have done so."

He shrugged.

"If we can find something resembling the strap in the house, that should at least help us narrow down the identity of the attacker."

"True," replied Phryne thoughtfully. The door opened, and they were joined by Dr McMillan.

"Mac, what did Dr McCafferty mean about her having been here before?"

She grunted disapprovingly. "She was. A sprained wrist and considerable bruising, ostensibly caused by a fall. For some reason, she didn't want immediately to return home, so I took her to the safe house for a night."

"And did Mr Spencer object?"

"Didn't hear a peep out of him."

The door opened again to disgorge McCafferty. He glanced around at the assembled company, and then caught sight of the Hispano. His eyes lit up, and Phryne was amused to see that he was not, in fact, about forty as his demeanour had first suggested, but decidedly more boyish.

"I say!" he remarked. "Is that police issue, Inspector?"

"Sadly not," came the wry answer. "It's Miss Fisher's. Come and take a look?" he invited.

Phryne and Mac watched them go.

"So, you took Mrs Spencer to the safe house?" asked Phryne idly.

Mac gave her a look. "It wasn't a coincidence. The story about a fall was to save her having to discuss an uncomfortable truth, but she was scared to go home. I could tell. A night's respite seemed the best way to equip her, and if she'd wanted to stay for ever, she could have; but you know yourself, it's not a prison. If the women want to leave, they leave."

Phryne groaned in frustration, but agreed. Then tipped her head as a new thought occurred to her.

"Do you think she might have spoken to anyone at the safe house?" Mac frowned. "I know, it's a confidence … but Mac, why on earth wouldn't she tell us if it was her husband beating her? He's dead now. If it was him, she's out of harm's reach. If there's someone else she's shielding, perhaps the housekeeper at the safe house knows something?"

Mac looked at her sternly, and across at the two men beside the car.

"If you go, you go alone."

Phryne nodded absently. "Oh, of course. Jack will understand."

Privately, Mac doubted it.

Meanwhile, the young doctor had finished admiring the Hispano, and was instead studying his feet. Suddenly he appeared to come to a decision, and looked up at Jack.

"Are you On The Square, Inspector?"

Jack looked at him, brow furrowed for a moment. Then realisation dawned.

"No." He tipped his head at the doctor. "Why? Would it make a difference if I was?"

"No … probably not … no," came the reluctant response.

Jack fixed him with a steady gaze. "Doctor, if you know something that would help this investigation, you must tell me." There was only a blank look in response. "I've got a robbery, an assault and a possible suicide."

Still nothing.

"The moment you think you have something to tell me, doctor, this is where you will find me."

Jack passed across a business card, nodded to the still stony-faced medic, and opened the door to the Hispano, thinking furiously.

Why on earth should it matter whether he was a freemason?

Before he'd had the chance to think the question through, the other door opened and Miss Fisher landed elegantly on the seat beside him.

"I've had an idea, Jack," she announced. She described her conversation with Mac, and he nodded judiciously.

"We should go to the Indigent Women's hostel," he agreed, reaching for the starter. "I'll need you to lead the way."

Miss Fisher placed a quelling hand on his arm.

"No."

The Inspector was concentrating on starting the car, and didn't immediately look up.

We all make mistakes.

"Sorry, Miss Fisher, I meant that you need to take me to the hostel," he explained hastily.

"No."

He paused with his hand on the starter, and looked up at her, eyes narrowing.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I'm sorry too, Jack – but no. No, I will not take you or any of your men to the hostel."

She folded her hands on her lap and regarded him calmly. "Inspector, I perhaps need to remind you of the time we wrapped up the prostitution ring in London. You may recall that you weren't needed on that occasion either, when it came to the point of taking the women to safe houses."

He vaguely recalled something about being busy on closing written records, but decided it was wise to keep silent.

"I am very happy to ask any questions you wish of any inhabitants of the hostel. I am also happy to take with me a female officer, if you can find one and if she wears plain clothes and signs a guarantee that she will not disclose the whereabouts of the safe house."

She looked him in the eye. "The clue's in the name, Jack. It's a safe house for battered women. There are women who batter other women, but not many, and not in the experience of our … patients." The word was carefully selected and carefully noted.

She drew herself up and regarded him expressionlessly. That, in itself, was a major statement of intent from a woman whose eyes had always told him everything.

"You and your men will not come with me. You will not follow me. You will not make any attempt to find out where I have been."

Having made the point, she moved closer and spoke in words for only his ears.

"Jack, you would destroy the work and trust that has taken more than ten years to build. Give me a woman officer, or tell me what you want. If you tell me I have to take you, or any other man, I will lead you on a wild goose chase that's liable to end up at Luna Park. And the ice cream will be on you, possibly quite literally."

They exchanged a fulminating glance.

She dropped him off at City South.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Deciding not to let the rejection sting (it was, he supposed, rather a compliment that Miss Fisher would regard him as likely to stoop to her own tactics), Jack stopped only to collect a car and drove himself back to Armadale. The kitchen door seemed the best bet, and sure enough, he was greeted with the sight of an ample frame on its knees, scrubbing industriously. He cleared his throat noisily, and a startled face turned towards him, before the cook rose to her feet, covered in soapsuds and confusion.

"Sorry if I took you by surprise," he apologised, tipping his hat. "Mrs …?"

"Lacey. And you are?" came the querulous reply.

"Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, Mrs Lacey."

The presence of a nice, safe policeman clearly did a great deal to comfort the cook, whose expression cleared.

"And here's me trying to get the bloodstains off the floor," she sighed. "All at sixes and sevens I am."

"I won't trouble you," Jack insisted. "You've already given a statement to my sergeant, I believe?"

"Such a nice man," she beamed. "Not that I could tell him much, mind. I was over at my sister's. Four children she's got now, and another on the way." Mrs Lacey was apparently ready to settle in for a gossip, so Jack excused himself hastily and made his way to the study. Closing the study door behind him, he leaned against it for a moment and took stock of the room. The gruesome evidence of Spencer's death remained, with blood spattered over the desk, lamp and part of the floor; Mrs Lacey would be at sixes and sevens for some time to come, he surmised.

A roll-top bureau stood against the wall, and he went to examine it. The roller section contained paperwork: bank statements (if nothing else, Spencer was certainly solvent) and receipted household bills. Below this was a deep drawer; inside it was what appeared to be a slightly oddly-shaped briefcase – and a leather strap. Holding it in gloved hands, Jack examined it closely, and could see the faintest dark traces on its edges – blood? Mac would know. He bagged it and, in a spirit of idle curiosity, reached for the briefcase. It wasn't locked; and the only item it contained appeared to be a square of fabric, with geometrical designs on the front.

For a moment, Jack gazed at it, brow furrowed; then inspiration dawned. He took the briefcase too, and made his way back to the kitchen, where Mrs Lacey was now engaged in the more prosaic activity of taking inventory of the store cupboards.

"You won't be doing much cooking for a while, I suppose," Jack remarked. "I don't know how long it will take Mrs Spencer to recover, but she won't be home this week at any rate."

"No, Inspector, it's a crying shame," agreed the cook. "And there's me with a fresh load of vegetables from the grocer and a great joint of beef from the butcher come yesterday."

Jack was making his way to the door, but stopped and turned at that. "The butcher made a delivery yesterday?"

"Oh yes. The delivery boys know what to do when it's my day off. Jerry from Budge the butcher just puts the meat straight into the refrigerator for me – just pops it in the bottom, and I can wash and wrap it when I come in."

"What time would he have been here?"

"Couldn't say, Inspector – except I know it was after I left at noon, and before I came back at eight o'clock."

Excusing himself again, Jack returned to the study, and the roll-top bureau. Searching through the household bills, he appropriated one headed "Brendan Budge, Quality Butcher" before making as swift an exit as was feasible in the face of the voluble domestic.

Arriving back at City South, he called Constable Collins in to his office.

"Collins, I'm fairly certain this is the instrument used on Mrs Spencer, but I'd like Dr Mac to confirm it – get it sent over to her, would you?"

"Yes sir."

The Inspector sat back and looked pensively at the briefcase. Arriving at a decision, he picked up the telephone.

"Hello? DI Robinson here from City South. I was wondering if it might be possible to see the Chief at some point? Three o' clock?" He checked his watch. "Thank you."

Chief Commissioner Cooper stood politely as Jack entered his office.

"Jack, good to see you. We must have that dinner some time; there's something I want to talk to you about, but not in the office. What can I do for you right now?"

"Sir – would I be right in thinking that you're a Freemason?"

Jack had been hesitant about asking the question, but beyond a rather quizzical look, Cooper didn't appear offended.

"I am," was all he said, and waited for the next question.

"And is this," Jack opened the briefcase, "an element of masonic regalia?"

"It is." Cooper was alert now. "Where did it come from?"

"I found it in the study of a dead man," replied Jack shortly. "His name was Spencer."

"Dead?"

"A gunshot to the head. It may have been suicide, but we've yet to find a reason why he might have taken his own life." Jack paused, and chose his words carefully. "Someone asked me … as part of the investigation, whether I was a mason; which made me wonder whether there might be a connection. Sir … how can I speak to members of Spencer's Lodge?"

Cooper frowned.

"Talking to them is straightforward. I'd be delighted to give you an introduction. Getting them to say anything about this man, though … might be more difficult."

"But it's a police investigation, sir! You, of all people, must see that?"

"It's a question of fellowship, Jack. If this chap Spencer was a respected member of the Lodge, they will be reluctant to discuss it. If, on the other hand, he'd done something wrong … well, he might have been expelled, in which case it would be simply as though he didn't exist for them any more."

He leaned his arms on the desk between them. "Freemasons aren't some kind of club, Jack. The principles aren't all that different from Christianity: brotherly love, relief and truth."

"So …" Jack said slowly, thinking aloud, "… if one of the – Brethren?" the Chief nodded, "was found to have done something utterly unacceptable, and was expelled … might he take his own life?"

"Oh, Jack, that's an impossible question to answer."

"But, if he _did_ take his own life, he might choose not to say why …"

The Chief Commissioner pursed his lips, but didn't deny the logic.

"Thank you, sir."

"Jack – if you can manage this without bringing the Craft into it – at least, publicly – I would be grateful."

Jack paused with his hand on the door and nodded.

"It shouldn't be a problem, sir; there's one person I've still to speak to, but I think we can keep it quiet enough."

He returned to City South, where Collins was still at the desk.

"Nothing from Mac yet, Collins?"

"No sir. She did say it looked like a good match, but she will have more information tomorrow."

"Thank you, Collins. One more task for you – can you track down a Dr Ross McCafferty who occasionally helps out at the Women's Hospital, and ask him to come down the station as soon as is convenient? I'd like a word, and I want him to take it seriously."

"Yes sir."

At that, the telephone rang; as he was standing next to it, Jack picked it up.

"Jack? It's me. Just telephoning to say I'm home from the safe house, and happy to talk through what I heard if you're able to come over here."

"On my way, Miss Fisher."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

The rapidity with which the police car covered the distance between City South and The Esplanade would have put even Miss Fisher's Hispano-Suiza to shame, but it was a calm and quiet Inspector who let himself into the house. He glanced first into the parlour and kitchen, but received only a shaken head and a finger pointing up to the first floor from Mr Butler, who was working his way through a pile of as-yet-unpeeled vegetables.

He opened the door to the boudoir, and came upon Soo, Phryne's maid, tidying the clothes into the wardrobe and the laundry basket. She inclined her head briefly towards the bath, and left the room so quietly that, had he not been watching, he would have sworn she hadn't moved.

A dark head was all that could be seen, and he removed his jacket and cufflinks, rolling up his shirt sleeves before he went to kneel behind her and kiss the top of her head.

"Hello, Jack."

Two words that had punctuated their relationship over the years. By turns gleeful, excited, sultry and downright surprised, this was a new inflection: or rather, a lack of it. It was so quiet as to speak only of emotional exhaustion; a resigned monotone.

He whispered a hello, but said no more, reaching to lace his hands with hers where they lay on the sides of the tub. He rested his chin on the rim and his cheek in her hair, and they remained like that for long minutes. The air was scented with jasmine, and he closed his eyes and breathed it in.

"I should be accustomed by now," she said flatly.

He considered. "One can be accustomed yet still be disturbed. When you stop being disturbed, then we can worry."

They stayed there for a few minutes more, until the steam had stopped spiralling from the surface of the water. He stood and reached for the towel, holding it out for her in invitation. She stepped out, and allowed herself to be embraced in cotton, warmth and Jack's very specific tenderness.

"Dinner will be an hour at least."

"It will."

"You can tell me then what you found out at the safe house."

"I can."

"In the meantime, if you'll let me, I'd like to demonstrate the proper treatment of wives."

"I think I'd like that very much, Jack."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Dressing for dinner didn't adopt the usual interpretation at 221B that evening. To start with, the youngest member of the household had decided that Clothes were A Bore, and now that she was getting the hang of the simple smocks she normally wore, had taken to pulling them over her head. Those responsible for her care shrugged philosophically and agreed that, as long as she was carefully secured into her garments when company was visiting, she would at least be easier to clean after meals; so nursery tea was taken _au naturale_.

Her parents were a little more considerate to the staff, but there didn't seem much point in putting a tie back on, and a shift dress could cover a multitude of sins (and quite often had). As they relaxed over the cheese course, therefore, Jack's forearm was readily available for tracing with a manicured finger; he watched the finger out of the corner of his eye, and said lightly,

"I found the strap, and might have a suicide motive. How did you get on?"

It was a testament to the therapeutic qualities of hot, jasmine-scented water and a remarkably attentive husband that Phryne was able to respond almost as lightly, "I think it must have been him. Beating her. There was no-one else."

She paused, and sipped her wine, before continuing.

"I had a cup of tea with Millie, the housekeeper. She'd sat up with Janine most of the night when she went to the safe house. She's a remarkable woman, Jack," she looked up at him and smiled slightly. "Millie, I mean. Roughly the same size and stature as a church mouse, but so strong – not just physically, but mentally. She's seen so much, and she's a pillar for the women in that house."

Another sip of wine.

"Janine didn't mention her husband by name. Not once. All she could talk about was how important it was to love your family. That commitment was to be taken seriously. Commitment was vital."

Pause for reflection.

"I don't think Millie's ever taken a day off. I don't think she's ever had a day away from the house, even if she's the only person there."

More patterns on Jack's forearm. Becoming smaller and more tightly drawn; her nails were digging in to a degree that wasn't quite comfortable, but the Inspector wouldn't have dreamed of mentioning it.

"Janine asked for a taxi to take her home at first light, and got into it almost unaided."

With a start, Phryne looked at Jack's arm, and saw the marks she had been leaving. Then she blinked and accepted the evidence, with which came another realisation that made her smile a little.

"Do you know what, Jack? I think that, when she refused to tell you anything about the beatings she'd taken, she was taking the first big step back towards pride, and dignity. I don't think she will ever tell anyone what she went through."

She took his hand in both of hers and raised it to her lips.

"Not unless she finds herself a Jack Robinson, anyway. And this one's taken."

He quirked a smile.

"How would you feel about taking this particular Jack Robinson to visit a butcher's boy tomorrow? I have a feeling he may be able to help us match some fingerprints on a jewellery box."

She sat up at that, and her eyes sparkled with intrigue. "Am I allowed to rise at a civilised hour?"

He did a quick calculation involving an appointment with a doctor.

"Would eleven be too soon?"

"Eleven would be as civilised as All Get Out, Inspector. I shall present myself rested, relaxed and reinvigorated for as many butchers' boys as you choose to offer me."

"Just the one, Miss Fisher. Just the one."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Dr McCafferty might have been excused for appearing apprehensive when he arrived at City South the following morning, but either he was the best actor Jack had ever seen, or he was the owner of an entirely clear conscience.

Jack came straight to the point.

"Tell me what you know about Conrad Spencer."

McCafferty eyed the policeman shrewdly and, after a moment's consideration, replied. "He was a moderately successful industrialist, a former Freemason and a wife-beater." When Jack failed to react, he continued. "But I see you knew all of those things, Inspector."

Jack nodded. "I'd be interested to know how you did, though."

McCafferty leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands on his knees. "He was a member of my Lodge; and I saw what he had done to Mrs Spencer the first time she came in. It was me who saw her, and I noticed that, when the nurse placed a hand on her back at one point, she winced; so I got Mac to give her a full examination. There was no explanation offered as to how she'd come by her injuries, but when Mac took her to a safe house rather than sending her home, the facts spoke for themselves."

He continued. "I asked Spencer about it, and he eventually admitted what he'd been doing."

He looked at Jack collectedly.

"We have a principle of brotherly love, Inspector; and love can forgive a great deal. However, we also espouse truth; and once such an unpalatable truth became known, it couldn't readily be countenanced even by the more – shall we say, traditional members of the Lodge."

"So he was expelled?"

"He was."

"Would that be enough to make a man kill himself?" asked Jack disbelievingly.

"Perhaps not, in itself. But I gathered that, over time, business was also withdrawn from him."

"A concerted attack on his business, you mean?"

"More like the opposite, Inspector. A series of individuals who decided independently to remove someone whose behaviour they found abhorrent from their lives."

"And now he's dead." The loss of his livelihood, and with it, his pride? _Yes_ , thought Jack, _I can see how that would drive a man to suicide_.

"And he is mourned, Inspector. But not missed, I don't think." The doctor tipped his head to one side. "Will it be necessary to publicise any of this in your report?"

Jack shook his head. "I think that at this stage it would do his widow more harm than good, Doctor. No, I think I can keep the report to the broadest outline."

The two men shook hands, and McCafferty took his leave. Jack returned to his office and sat for a moment, structuring in his head the careful wording of a report into the suicide; then stood, reaching for coat and hat.

"Collins? Bring the car round. We've going to take Miss Fisher to the butcher's."

When the police car arrived at 221B The Esplanade, Collins was at the wheel; the Inspector leaped out to give the front passenger seat to Miss Fisher, and they set off in style.

"Mr Budge? Detective Inspector Robinson, Melbourne City South Police. I'm looking for your delivery boy?"

"Johnno? Take 'im and welcome, Inspector. 'E's been here for less'n a month and he's already cost me more than his wages in mistaken deliveries," said the florid faced man behind the counter. "'E'll be out the back in the shed, puttin' 'is bike away. Just back from 'is morning round, so I reckon I've got about ten minutes before the telephone starts ringing with complaints."

They trooped through the door to the back of the shop and out into the yard where a skinny youth with a permanently sulky expression was to be seen inside the lean-to shed. He appeared to be examining the contents of a cardboard box, and when the Inspector approached, looked up and tried unsuccessfully to hide it behind his back.

"Okay, Johnno, hand them over."

"What? Hand what over?"

"The jewels from the Spencer house."

"Dunno what yer on about."

Miss Fisher, meantime, had inserted herself into the shed as well. "Inspector, look!" she remarked cheerfully. He looked; she was holding on to the sleeve of the youth's shirt, where a gaping hole was to be seen. "Blue cotton," she stated meaningfully.

The boy dropped the box he'd been holding and, slippery as an eel, extracted himself from Phryne's grasp and dodged past the Inspector. He hadn't reckoned on Hugh Collins, though; with younger brothers of his own, the Constable was familiar with their traits and secured the miscreant by one arm and one ear.

" _Well done_ Hugh!" exclaimed Phryne.

"Thank you, Miss" he replied. "Right, you, come on – we're going to the station." The Inspector stooped to gather the scattered booty, and Miss Fisher led the triumphant procession back to the police car.

Johnno's nerve was pathetically easy to crack. A short spell in the cells to soften him up had the words tumbling from him as soon as Collins delivered him to the interview room.

He'd found the kitchen door open as expected, but when he'd left the delivery, had ventured further into the house. Finding it empty, he took the opportunity to ransack the bedroom, and had moved on to the study when he heard a car coming up the driveway. He looked out the window, and saw Mr & Mrs Spencer sitting in the front. They entered the front door and he heard footsteps coming towards the study; trapped, he was forced to leave by the window and didn't even have the chance to latch it closed before the door opened.

He held his breath, not daring to move in case he made a sound; but only heard the roll-top desk open and close, and then the door close.

He'd then crept round the side of the house to where his bike was lying under the hedge, in full view of the kitchen. Mrs Spencer had been standing at the sink, and he saw her husband enter the room, brandishing the strap. With the attention of both Spencers diverted, he snatched up his bike and made his escape.

"So you saw Mr Spencer beating his wife?"

"Yer," said the boy sulkily. "Not like I could do anything. He were bigger 'n me."

 _But you could have raised the alarm_ was the collective thought of both sleuths, and Phryne's lip curled in disgust.

"I'm sorry, Inspector," she apologised, "but I'm afraid there's rather a nasty smell in here."

"I agree, Miss Fisher," he replied. "Constable, please remove it."

Hugh Collins secured the youth once more in his iron grip and returned him to the cells.

"A repellent toad," concluded Phryne. "But at least we have Mrs Spencer's jewellery back." She turned to the door, settling her cloche more firmly on her head. "Any chance of a lift home, Inspector?"

"But of course, Miss Fisher. It's the least the Melbourne Police Force can do." He reached past her to open the door courteously. "In any case, if you stay here you're liable to get caught up in something else."

"Oh, come on, Jack. If I waited to be asked to help in your investigations we wouldn't have had nearly as much fun. Will you be home for dinner?"

He groaned at the reminder. "No. The Chief Commissioner's commanded my presence at his club."

"It can't be that bad, Jack. I've heard the food at the Melbourne Club's delicious."

"It's not the food. It's the conversation that goes with it."

She grinned up at him as he went to close the car door for her. "Tell you what – when you get home, I promise you won't have to do any talking at all. How's that?"

"Promising, Miss Fisher. Very promising. I'll try not to be too late back. Wouldn't want to miss any of this … silence you're offering." He settled into the driver's seat.

She leaned across and whispered in his ear. " _I didn't say there wouldn't be any noise, Jack_."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

"It was well done, Robinson. I'm receiving enquiries from the Lodge as to why you have yet to join the Brethren." Cooper hesitated for a second, then said meaningfully, "Of course, I'm also looking at recommending you for promotion."

The implication was clear: if you want to be a DCI, become a Freemason.

Jack swallowed hard, and his answer took a matter of seconds to consider and some tortured sentences to deliver.

"Sir … the difficulty I face in replying to you is one which I think you will understand easily, but many of your fellow masons would not. I see Freemasonry as a great means to engineer change for the better in our city; and for a lot of men, it will also be a step up in terms of career advancement."

Jack paused, conscious that he was picking his way through a political minefield.

"The thing is – I feel I am already doing everything I can to engineer change for the better in Melbourne. I'm not changing laws, but I change lives – daily, fundamentally and often irrevocably."

He looked Bill Cooper straight in the eye.

"I like my job as it is, Chief. I like to think I'm pretty good at it, and my statistics back me up. I don't want to advance to a career that stops it being my job to go to the crime scene, but instead to wait, pushing more paper around and talking politics, until someone reports back to me about what they've found."

He shrugged.

"So – I don't want a new means to make a difference, and I don't want career advancement. That means I think the masons would want to boot me out within the first week. If I'm wrong, I know you'll tell me."

Cooper raised an eyebrow and half of a smile.

"If I have a criticism of you, Jack, it's that you consistently underestimate your abilities. We wouldn't be the slightest bit interested in booting you out; but we're also not interested in forcing you to participate in something you can't believe in wholeheartedly."

He folded his napkin and got up; Jack rose to his feet as well, and they headed for the door.

Cooper stopped, looked at his hand on a chair back pensively for a moment, and glanced back over his shoulder.

"I'm still going to be recommending you for promotion to Detective Chief Inspector, though. And I'm not going to apologise – you can make a difference to more people and more effectively, the more senior you become. You're too valuable an asset to be kept at DI level, Jack. Coffee?"

The Senior Detective Inspector gratefully answered the only question for which he could formulate an answer, and the coffee was served black.

The clink of cup on saucer and teaspoon on cup as Jack tried to compute his options was thereafter marked _mezzo piano_ in the score of the soundtrack to his life. The _fortissimo_ earthquake provided by the snoring of the judge in the wing-back chair was mostly imaginary.


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"No."

He was lying face down on the bed and his head was half buried in the pillow. Mrs Robinson raised her eyebrows slightly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I don't want it."

Correctly surmising that he wasn't referring to the ministrations of his wife, she replaced the lid on the cold cream and her robe on its hook, and walked in the perfectly good skin God had given her to join the torn soul under the sheet.

Unusually, though, the gentle caress of fingertips around the hairline at the back of his neck received no response. With a shrug, she sat back on her heels and resorted to The Spoken Word.

"What don't you want, Jack?"

The response was muffled. She rolled her eyes. "Unless you're speaking fluent Mallard, the duck feathers in the pillow won't have caught a word of that."

He raised his head long enough to thump it back down on its side on the same down-filled pillow.

"Promotion."

"Oh."

Silence.

"You like your job," she surmised.

"Mmm."

Mmm was good. Mmm was at least communicative. Phryne had strong views that the people who shared her bed should be as communicative as possible, at least as long as she wasn't trying to sleep. She started to circle an exploratory finger on his shoulder blades.

"You like … performing the investigation yourself. And getting out from behind the desk. And working with your men. And, of course, with _me_."

Each question was punctuated with a prod of the caressing finger before it resumed its figure-of-eight track across his upper back, and was rewarded with a further grunt of assent.

She smiled. Wickedly.

"Then it's quite straightforward, Inspector."

"Hnn?" he asked, more or less recognisably.

"All you have to do … when the Chief offers you promotion … is carry on saying No. I think we should practice."

She drew the sheet away from his back and carried on drawing.

The Inspector proved to be really rather bad at saying No; which worked wonderfully well, from the point of view of both Miss Fisher and the Chief Commissioner.

Not, of course, at the same time.


End file.
